A commotion arose outside the tent, rousing Daenerys from her meditation. She sat cross-legged in the roaring flames, clutching the black dragon egg in her arms, and opened her eyes in frustration.
She was in the middle of sterilizing herself!
With temperatures soaring over 1,000 degrees, the flames were far more effective than any antibiotic or penicillin—cleaner, more efficient, and free of side effects.
Clenching her fists, Daenerys felt her body lighter and stronger than before.
Stepping out of the fire pit, she washed away the grime on her body with scalding hot water and picked up a feather-stuffed bundle she had prepared earlier—a makeshift pack fashioned from a duck feather pillow.
Soon, she emerged from the tent, looking no different than before: a heavily pregnant Daenerys, struggling to lift the leather curtain, stepped outside into the blazing heat.
The setting sun casts a long shadow over the hills. The air was sweltering and windless, and a group of Dothraki warriors lingered in the shade of the hillside to escape the oppressive heat.
A ring of guards stood rigid as spears around Drogo's grass palace. Ser Jorah Mormont, looking like a tin soldier encased in armor, stood about three meters from the tent's entrance, arguing heatedly with a Dothraki warrior.
The Dothraki, pointing his arakh at Jorah, taunted, "Coward! The spineless Andal hides again in his iron skin!"
The term "Andal" was the Dothraki's name for Jorah Mormont.
The narrative of A Song of Ice and Fire spans three key storylines:
The Wall in the North – The biting cold, the looming threat of the White Walkers, and their danger to humanity.
King's Landing in Westeros – The game of thrones.
Essos and the Free Cities – Daenerys's journey of liberating slaves.
The core of the plot centers on Westeros.
Westeros is home to four distinct groups of people:
The Children of the Forest and Giants – The original inhabitants, with a history spanning millions of years, skilled in magic and stone tools, living mostly beyond the Wall.
The First Men – Indigenous settlers who migrated from Essos 12,000 years ago, bringing bronze-age civilization. Their descendants primarily inhabit the North and beyond the Wall.
The Andals – Invaders from Essos 8,000 years ago who introduced iron tools and the Faith of the Seven.
The Rhoynar – Refugees fleeing Valyria's dragonlords 1,000 years ago. They lacked the advanced civilization to invade and were absorbed into the more arid southern region of Dorne.
Hence, the title of the king in Westeros is "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
Jorah Mormont, lord of Bear Island in the North, descends from the First Men, not the Andals.
Although knightly customs were established by the Andals, knights represent most people's impression of warriors from Westeros. Jorah, clad in knightly armor, fits that image.
However, Jorah might not technically be a knight. Knighthood requires a religious ceremony where a Seven priest anoints the knight with holy oils and another knight formally bestows the title.
Jorah, being a Northman and a follower of the Old Gods, had likely undergone complete knightly training, owned armor and a warhorse, but wasn't officially a knight.
For instance, none of the Starks of Winterfell, from Lord Eddard down, were knights.
To the Dothraki, a nomadic "primitive" people, wearing steel armor was a sign of cowardice.
Armor = fear of death = cowardice. This was their logical chain.
The Dothraki warrior noticed Daenerys exiting the tent but, far from retreating, he mocked her even louder.
Jorah, with his left hand gripping his sword and his right hand gesturing angrily, hurled insults back at the warrior:
"You savage trash, you mongrel son of a horse! You know nothing. This full plate of mine is worth a hundred of your worthless heads!"
Switching between Dothraki and the Common Tongue of Westeros, Jorah's scathing remarks alternated between personal attacks on the warrior and general disdain for the Dothraki as a whole. His tirade, incomprehensible to most bystanders, spared no obscenities.
Ever alert to his opponent's movements, Jorah caught the change in the Dothraki warrior's gaze and followed it, noticing Daenerys. Realizing his duty as her protector, he drew his knightly longsword with a resonant shining and charged toward the Dothraki warrior.
The Dothraki warrior had been ready for this confrontation all along. He hadn't acted earlier only because they were within the Khal's camp—any reckless behavior would have resulted in him being turned into a porcupine by a rain of arrows from the guards.
The warrior, whom Daenerys had dismissed as a mere grunt, moved so quickly that her eyes couldn't keep up. His arakh flashed in the sunlight, weaving a silvery curtain of blades.
Ser Jorah, clad in full plate armor of deep gray steel, presented an imposing figure. His massive helmet left only narrow slits for his eyes, and his armor gleamed with a metallic sheen—gorget, gauntlets, greaves, and boots, all meticulously forged.
Despite the weight of his armor, his movements were remarkably agile. His two-handed greatsword sliced through the air like a spinning fan.
The clash of steel on steel was relentless, filling the air with a cacophony reminiscent of a storm's downpour, striking banana leaves outside a window.
Sparks flew from their weapons, glowing yellow as they flickered between their blades and danced on Jorah's armor like fireflies.
Though the description seems lengthy, the fight itself was over in mere moments. Within the span of four or five seconds, Jorah retreated three steps, planting his sword into the ground for support as heavy, labored breaths escaped from beneath his helmet.
The Dothraki warrior lay sprawled on the crimson sands, writhing and howling in pain. Dark red blood seeped from his chest, only to be hungrily swallowed by the parched, cracked earth, as if by a ravenous demon.
Daenerys estimated the fight had lasted no more than five seconds. In that time, Jorah had taken at least three hits, yet seemed unfazed—though his steel chest plate now bore several fresh dents.
The Dothraki warrior had maintained the upper hand for most of the duel. It wasn't until the very last moment, perhaps when he slowed briefly to catch his breath, that Jorah landed a decisive blow to his chest.
"Khaleesi!"
Jorah and her loyal bloodriders greeted her one by one.
Under the shadow of the hills, the other Dothraki observed the scene, pointing and murmuring amongst themselves with an air of nonchalance. A few had even joined in mocking the "cowardly Andal" earlier.
Now, as their comrade lay on the ground, bleeding out and struggling, they seemed entirely indifferent, showing neither sympathy nor concern. It was as though they believed he deserved his fate.
"Khaleesi, you left the maegi alone in the Khal's palace?" Qotho rode up, anger clear in his voice as he reproached her.
"She's with Lilith, assisting with the birth. Didn't you hear her birthing song?" Daenerys replied calmly, gesturing for Aggo to pull aside the grass curtain outside the birthing chamber.
The scene inside was laid bare for all to see. Mirri Maz Duur, her voice hoarse from singing the lilting songs of the Shadowlands for over an hour, was tending to Lilith. She moved her hands gently over Lilith's swollen, glistening belly, seemingly attempting to reposition the baby.
The pregnant woman, lying on a crude bed of rushes, had a square-shaped face now pale as wax. Her temples were damp with sweat, and her clenched jaw revealed tightly gritted teeth, the veins on her cheeks bulging. Her faint moans of pain and the faint metallic tang of blood filled the air, drifting beyond the curtain to meet the onlookers.
A cesarean section might take half an hour at most but for a natural delivery—especially a difficult one—four or five hours was not unusual.
Mirri Maz Duur's voice had grown raspy after singing her birthing song for over an hour. When the curtain was pulled back and she noticed all the eyes on her, she shook her head at Daenerys from a distance of about ten paces. Without breaking her song, she hurriedly reached out to close the curtain again.
Seeing with their own eyes that Mirri Maz Duur wasn't practicing any dark magic, the crowd quickly lost interest and went back to their own affairs.
"Water, water," the fallen Dothraki warrior groaned, begging for a drink as he lay on the ground, awaiting death.
Daenerys approached and tossed a pouch of mare's milk onto the ground near him. Then she instructed her handmaid Irri to unfasten his painted vest. She reminded herself that she was a heavily pregnant woman, unable to bend down to feed him water or crouch to inspect his injuries.
"The breastbone blocked the blade—it didn't reach his organs," Daenerys observed after a glance. "Irri, press some cotton cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding. Qhoro, summon the hairless man to stitch him up."
Qhoro protested in Dothraki, "Khaleesi, he challenged the Andal and failed. He must accept his fate. We shouldn't move him or treat him. Whether he lives or dies is for the Great Stallion in the sky to decide. Everyone knows this."
"Everyone knows this," Irri echoed dutifully.
"Everyone knows this," Jhogo agreed.
Daenerys shot Qhoro a sharp look, her tone icy. "Do you want everyone to know that you disobeyed your Khaleesi's orders?"
Qhoro's almond-shaped eyes widened in defiance, but he saw the determination in Daenerys's gaze. Muttering something unintelligible, he spurred his horse and rode off.
The sun, like a wounded animal, cast a bloody glow over the barren land before it wavered and sank below the horizon.
By nightfall, Mirri Maz Duur, whose "education" spanned several nations and who claimed multiple medical "credentials," had proven herself surprisingly capable. The first baby was born—a wailing, silver-haired boy with the bronzed skin of the Dothraki, almond-shaped eyes, and pale violet irises.
Daenerys stood behind the carved wooden partition decorated with images of beasts. Using a dagger, she sliced through the thick grass curtain and reached through the gap to take the naked infant from Mirri Maz Duur's hands.
"Khaleesi, it's twins—there's another," Mirri rasped, her voice hoarse from singing.
"Continue."
Daenerys lingered for nearly two minutes before stepping out from behind the screen.
"Wash him with warm water," she instructed as she handed the boy, now wrapped in a woolen blanket, to Jhiqui in the main hall.
By the time the second baby was born, Rakharo had arrived at Khal Drogo's pavilion.
"Ha ha ha! A boy and a girl! The boy is strong, the girl is delicate—a symbol of the sun and stars. This is a blessing from the Great Stallion himself!" Rakharo exclaimed with fervor, lifting the newborns high.
He raised the boy in his left hand toward the setting sun in the west and the girl in his right hand toward the darkening eastern sky, where the Great Stallion's star twinkled. The bells braided into his beard jingled with ambitious energy.
As Rakharo and the others left joyously with the children and Lilith, Mirri Maz Duur emerged from a nearby tent where she had been cleaning up. Watching their retreating figures, she muttered in puzzlement, "How could he tell the boy was bigger? Weren't they about the same size?"
"These foolish horsemen are so strange," she remarked, shaking her head before heading back toward Khal Drogo's pavilion.
By demonstrating her capabilities, Mirri Maz Duur secured the privilege of becoming one of Khaleesi's close attendants. She would stay with Daenerys's personal bloodriders, forbidden to leave without permission until the Khaleesi's children had safely arrived.
(End of Chapter)
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